


Delegate

by Hannigrammatic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Growing Old, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: Hannibal contemplates life, and how he's not getting any younger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> aka, the fic no one asked for, but I couldn't stop thinking about. Mortality is something that hits me often, especially lately for some reason. What better way to work through my thoughts than to do so with adorable Hannigram ♥
> 
> Not beta read!

As per his morning (and nightly) ritual, Hannibal stands at the mirror for ten minutes, staring into his own eyes and studying his reflection from as many angles as possible. It shows him an aging man: a fair amount of wrinkles crawl their way across his face from the corner of his eyes and his lips- and his hair grows lighter every year, the amount of grey in it no longer something he can fathom counting. 

He leans close until his forehead nearly touches the cool surface before him, eyes darkening. 

A mind such as his own, soon to be a waste as the body it nestles in grows older and older, as his muscles loosen more each day that inches by, no matter the exercise he rigorously puts it through.

 _What a pity_ , one voice spits.

 _You’re only aging. It’s natural. You aren’t immortal_ , another rations.

 _You’re still a monster_ they both reassure. 

Hannibal closes his eyes and turns away to continue dressing for the day. Casual clothes to suit the heat that bakes the villa daily, beating down through large open windows to highlight the modernity of its insides. Shiny steel and marble surfaces, sparklingly clean. He leaves the bathroom soundlessly and discards his used towel and sleeping clothes in the hamper outside of the bedroom. 

Faint whistling wafts into the hallway, giving him pause. Closer, turning the corner and passing through the archway, he finds Will in the kitchen. He wears only a thin blue robe and a fuzzy pair of _ridiculous_ paw-shaped slippers. His head of curly hair sits in disarray around his handsome face -his _younger_ , handsome face. Hannibal finds himself in a moment of rare disquiet as he forces a smile onto his face.

“Good morning, love,” he greets Will.

Bright blue eyes appraise him momentarily, and Will smiles, asking; “Is it good, though?”

Hannibal raises one brow and narrows his own eyes imperceptibly. Will chuckles, tosses his head in such a way to send his hair flying around wildly, before he returns his attention to the sizzling pan before him. Eggs, scrambled, Hannibal notes. 

He strides to the coffee machine, the old, simple one that Will insists on keeping, and pours some into the mug already set on the counter for him.

“You’re up early,” he observes. “Ought I to be the one asking if the morning is good?”

“I can wake up early,” the other man laughingly answers. “It’s just a rare occurrence!”

“Indeed it is,” Hannibal smiles sincerely this time. “Have you any plans for the day?”

Will leans forward to flip the burner off. The eggs are piled onto two awaiting plates in even portions, joined by forks, two pieces of buttered toast, and four rashers of greasy bacon each. He takes their breakfast to the table and seats himself. Hannibal joins him and smiles across the table at the beauteous creature that Will Graham is.

“Not really,” the younger man replies eventually. “I thought we could go for a walk. Or a drive. Either or, honestly.”

“That sounds wonderful,” the older man says, still smiling. “This looks delicious, by the way.”

Will ducks his head and chuckles nervously, attempting to hide the blush reddening his cheeks as he takes a long drink of coffee.

“I know it’s nothing fancy,” he shrugs one shoulder in clear embarrassment. 

Hannibal hides his own smile behind a sip of the steaming beverage. It never ceases to amaze him how shy Will turns at a compliment, even after so many years together, here on this island in their quaint little home removed from the rest of the world. 

At the thought, Hannibal returns to his uncharacteristic worrying.

He can’t pinpoint when it started to bother him, which is annoying in itself. Before, age existed merely as a number and nothing else, and death -inevitable. Now, however, growing old didn’t only affect him. He studies Will closely, watching him wolf his food down as if the bounty before him were the last meal he would have. 

“I wonder constantly if your parents ever taught you how to chew,” he murmurs, causing Will to pause around a mouth of egg-on-toast.

“I’m hungry,” Will argues, and the fact that he chooses to do so without swallowing his food makes Hannibal roll his eyes.

“Brat,” he scolds, and while it is said with fondness, it furthers Hannibal’s realization that they have about a decade of years dividing them, with him being the senior.

Something must be apparent on his face, because Will’s eyes suddenly narrow. He sits up straight and sets his spoon on his mostly empty plate, purses his lips, and then crosses his arms.

“There’s something bothering you,” he states. There’s no question to be answered here. “Talk to me, Hannibal.”

The topic isn’t new. Several times previous, Will had sensed the unease that haunted him. Rather than discuss it, however, Hannibal chose to change the subject or distract the younger man. He knew his lover was startlingly smart, and wasn’t surprised that he could pick up on this new development, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to talk about it. 

_It’s childish_ , he reminds himself. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he averts his eyes despite knowing that it will only serve to cause more suspicion. 

He has no energy to be annoyed by Will’s prying, though. Instead, he’s comforted that the other cares enough to prod more than once. 

“Except there’s a whole lot,” Will tilts his head. “Don’t think I don’t notice how long you take in the bathroom.”

Outed, Hannibal can only sniff at the air, pretending to be insulted while inwardly releasing a figurative breath. This is the furthest this conversation has gone, and he wonders why he’s not trying harder to dissuade it from continuing.

“Are you implying that I’m slow, then?”

Will laughs once, a bark of sound. A white tooth peeks out as he grins wolfishly. 

“And you call me the brat.”

Hannibal watches as Will leans forward to reach across the table, holding out his hand expectantly. The older man doesn’t hesitate in clasping it in one of his own, and their fingers tangle together gently.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Will turns soulful blue eyes onto him, face so sincere that Hannibal is nearly breathless with how wonderful his lover is.

“Some things I would rather not put into words,” he finally answers. “But thank you, dear Will.”

And while Will doesn’t press any further, Hannibal feels his bones become a little lighter. The ball of stress in his gut is a fist that doesn’t squeeze as hard. That night, he still stares at himself in the mirror, cataloguing each and every change that may or may not occur. That night, he still goes to bed with the thought that tomorrow his body will ache when he pulls it out of bed. Tomorrow, however, also means that he will wake up beside Will -his lover, his friend, his soulmate. 

And while yes, Will _is_ younger than him, that doesn’t mean that there is any less love between them.

_He loves you _, the voices insist.__

___No matter what.___


End file.
